


Shards

by jillyfae



Series: Sweetest of All Sounds [18]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 9,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Through a Glass Darkly</i> ... a collection of mostly-quite-AU drabbles and ficlets inspired by the dark otp writing challenge from <a href="http://actualodinson.tumblr.com/post/64547472272/30-day-dark-fandom-otp-writing-challenge">actualodinson</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vampire AU

Sebastian had  _known_  they were cold and pale, must avoid the light, for didn’t the brightest sun weaken them, drain them of their powers?  He never would have suspected  _her,_  not with the rich warm expanse of her skin, the way the candlelight caught against the shift of her throat when she laughed, gilding her with gold.

He wished to make her laugh again, until he could hear the sound of it in his dreams, until the echo stayed with him when he woke.

Until  _she_  stayed.

Despite the truth of her, the shadow in her eyes and the craving beneath her skin, the terrible way her fingers lingered against the pulse in his throat as she whispered dark secrets to drive him away, he  _wanted._

He stayed.

Until at last she trusted him.  Finally he bowed before her and she let her true face out, and she was not cold at all.  When he came apart beneath her he was scalding hot, his very soul aflame, and it seemed cheap indeed that all she would ever ask of him for such a privilege was a drop or two of blood, gifted from his body to slide between her lips.


	2. rough sex

She hated him, just this once, for being alive when everyone else died.

For keeping his armor so perfectly white, when she could never get the blood out from under her nails.

For standing beside her, no matter what she did, or what she said.  No matter the doubt in her heart.

For refusing to fight with her when she snarled at him.  Until she closed the door and they were alone, and then she hated him for fighting back.

For logic and anger and passion and impossible eyes and that damnable accent and stepping closer instead of backing away.

For the hard press of his chest and the shift of his shoulders and the grip of his hands, hard enough to bruise, and the growl in his chest when she pulled his head back by the hair, and the edge of his teeth on her neck and the heat of him everywhere, against her, inside her, until finally she broke around him, and it hurt, misplaced hatred sliding free, even as her body shivered with the pleasure he gave her.  

He pulled her close, and she cried at last, and her heart ached with how much she loved him.


	3. Wounded (physical ailments prompt)

She had tried.  For so very long, to honor her faith, to do what was right.

_To serve that which is best …_

All it had gotten her was loss, and death, over and over, and she couldn’t, not anymore, not when there was blood on his lips, between the broken scales of his coat, not when the warmth beneath his skin was fading, his face too pale by far.

She couldn’t survive, not this, not him.

_Not again. No more._

She opened her thoughts, her heart, broke every ward and safeguard her father had taught her, until her skin sang with the echoes of the Fade, dark whispers growing behind her thoughts, and the air around them twisted, blue and thick and cool, and she could see the burn of her magic freezing the ground beneath them, slick and sharp edged, bright enough to blind.

She wasn’t a spirit healer, didn’t have the skill.  But she had the power, enough to lift him from the ground as she poured it into him, an arc of spine and a gasp of breath between his lips.

If it wasn’t enough, if she couldn’t save him, she’d take them all down with them.


	4. Forbidden Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if the usual Brother/apostate thing wasn't forbidden enough I had to AU it? 
> 
> So this one may require a little explanation. I started an AU, once upon a time, with a Templar!Sebastian, rather than a Brother. This is a bit of an overview for a scene from that. That hit precisely 200 words on the very first try, so I’m stopping while I’m ahead and refusing to mess with it any more, even if it could probably use a bit more work. <3

She’d thought him just a mercenary, clearly well-to-do, leather armor and a very well kept bow over his shoulder, but an innocent enough association.  He’d needed help, and had the coin to support his request, and his need was more reasonable, more honorable than most in search of a sell-sword to back them up.

Not that she was a  _sword_ , technically.

She should have asked Varric about him, before she’d said yes.  He would have warned her.

But Serah Vael had seemed so honest, oddly kind, with a sweet expression lurking in those bright blue eyes of his.

She should have known better.

His head turned at the very first spell she cast, and though he’d been aiming at the Flint’s apostate, she felt the searing passage of his Holy Smite.

"Where’s your sword, Serah Templar?" She asked him afterwards, her voice low so as not to carry, and her heart beat quickly as he stood too close before he answered, and it wasn’t fear that caught her breath.

"It isn’t lifted steel that makes a Templar, milady Hawke."  He bowed his head, and there was heat in his eyes, but she didn’t think it was anger.  "It is Will."


	5. Phobias

He had never been afraid of the dark, never worried about nightmares or monsters.  It was instead a comfort, soft and warm and soothing.  

He felt free.  No one watching, no one judging.

When he found his faith, he realized that even in the darkest corner he was never alone.  

_Andraste watches us all._

So he stepped into the light, closer and closer to the flare of candles reflecting off the gold of Andraste’s statue, until the brilliance hid him better than any shadow ever had, a glare of heat and desire and hope to burn away his every doubt.


	6. Ritual

Sebastian saw her once when she approached, sheer chance, being by just the right window, glancing out at just the right time.  After that, he found himself tending towards duties by the entrance-way, along the balconies, the far wings of the courtyard, and he lifted his head every morning, before the first full light of day, in the hopes he’d see her again.

It was always the same.  A slow steady trudge up the stairs, her hand resting on her mabari’s back.  A scratch behind his ears, a pat on his head, one quiet huffed breath lifting his shoulders before he turned and trotted back down again, returning to Lowtown without his Mistress.

Occasionally he would turn through Hightown instead, heading out to keep some mysterious dog appointment.

(Eventually, Sebastian learned those were the mornings Daryn was training with Aveline, but he had always rather enjoyed the question of the mabari’s purpose, silently disappearing into the morning mists.)

Once her dog was gone she would lift her head, looking up the expanse of the Chantry’s facade, past the wide formal double doors, up to the stained glass window just beneath the roof, and for just a moment, those first few steps, her whole body would ease, her stride loose and long and her eyes lifted up, and his breath would catch in his throat and he would find himself lost, for just a breath, in the hint of fire as the first light of dawn caught in her eyes.

She’d reach the shadow of the doors, and tuck herself back in behind eyes gone dark, her steps shorter and softer, shoulders hunching as she slipped off her gauntlets and settled her staff closer to her body, until she’d faded, hiding against the stone, any regular parishioner, if one attending earlier than most.

But he always remembered that moment, before, when she was lit with such joy at the thought of her destination, such peace at the sight of simple stone and glass, and everything it meant to her.


	7. knifeplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: cutting, blood, knifeplay

Cold steel, the edge a tease, not pushing, not quite yet, so hard to breathe past the thought of it, sharp and cool and merciless. But nothing he could do with that small sharp blade could compare to the pain in her heart when he whispered her name, could ever cause her to regret like the moment when he closed his eyes, and she could not see their blue.

"Adelaide." His breath so soft against her skin.

"Yes," she answered, yes, and her blood seared hot against her skin as it broke free, as she cried out for him, “Sebastian.”


	8. Nightmares

Sometimes he was sick.  Something slow and painful and inevitable.

Sometimes she heard his bones crack, saw his blood spill.  Sometimes it was dark tendrils beneath his skin, grey swallowing that impossible blue in his eyes until there was nothing left of him looking out at her.

Sometimes he didn’t die at all, just stepped away, back beneath Andraste’s Golden Feet, face turned away, robes hanging heavily from his shoulders.  Sometimes he stepped forward, lifting his face to the sound of cheering voices, gold encircling his brow, silk draped across his arms.

Sometimes there was the heavy dark scent of blood and twisted magic, the memory of black stitches, an uneven wobble of impossible footsteps, the wrong fingers at the end of his arms, and if she was lucky she would wake herself up at last, sick and sad and crying.

_Not again._

If she was lucky, he was there, the heat of his skin and the strength of his embrace enough to remind her how to breathe.

Sometimes his hands would smooth down her back, her sides, fingers tracing the curve of muscle or breast or hip, his own breath oddly ragged, and his head tucked close against hers, and she knew he needed to banish his own nightmares as well, needed proof that she was whole and hale, no blood, no wounds, no loss.

_Never again._


	9. cracky b-movie horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know this is supposed to be a writing meme. But I’m sorry, it was too perfect, I couldn’t resist the dolls from [waivera](http://www.dolldivine.com/ocean-fashion-scene-maker.php). Post-apocalyptic ~~pseudo-surfer mutant~~ Adelaide and Sebastian, in the ruins of Kirkwall’s Harbor … 
> 
> Yes, I know, he looks 12 instead of 32, but any of the hair options were even worse, BUT he’s got the belt buckle? And I have no idea how she keeps her hair loose and beautiful down to her knees when she can’t even find SHOES but it doesn’t matter! Because they will survive the horrors of rubbery sea monsters and dark gloomy light and lots of fake pizza-sauce-like-blood and live happily ever after!! 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~with their belts instead of children because I have no idea how they take all that on and off in order to actually have sex~~


	10. Darkness

Everything was dark, but that didn’t matter, not for this.  Not for her.  He did not need light to find her, could follow the heat of her, drawing him to her, no matter how lost, no matter how dark.

He recognized the sounds she made at his touch, each sigh, each gasp, each sharp wordless cry or slow deep moan.  Each whisper of his name, each prayer.  He knew the smell of her skin, the touch of her hands, the brush of her hair against him, the shape of her beneath his lips, his fingers.

He knew the taste of her, the rhythm of her hips, her hands, the curve of her spine and her every breathless shout.  He knew how to trail his fingers down her spine to make her shiver, knew where to let his kisses fall, when to let his teeth hint at pain, though never quite deliver it, to make her shudder.

He could feel the curl of her fingers against his skin, the strength of her grip, the shift of her thighs against his hips, and he would know what she wanted, even before she found the words to ask.

He did not need to see her to lose himself in her, to pretend that this wasn’t, once more, the only thing he was good for, to forget, for just a little while, that he would never see her again.


	11. death fic

_Third time’s lucky, third time’s the charm_.

His third chance was not supposed to end like this.

_Not yet.  Not again.  Not her._

He had had too much of death.

He had lost his City, no longer a Prince.

Lost his faith, no longer a Brother.

Lost his lover, but not his life.

What point salvation, if all it offered was the same too bright sky and an empty bed?

It would take a better man than he was, a better man than he had ever been, would ever be, to bear such a loss thrice over.

He could not.


	12. obsession

She watched him, of course, every moment, every breath.  Had to be sure, had to be safe.  She would do anything,  _everything_ , to keep him here, with her.  She could not lose him.  She had lost too much.  There would not be more.

He kept her close, of course, every day, every night.  Made sure he was there, a step behind, a step ahead, always ready when she turned her gaze to him, the heat of it a twist in his gut, every time.  He would not disappoint her.  Never.  Her eyes would never turn cool, never slide away a breath too soon.  He would not allow it.

Always aware, how many steps apart, how quickly that distance could be closed, how easy it would be to come together.

How difficult it was to breathe, sometimes, until skin could touch, and breath be shared, until everything else could be forgotten, abandoned, in favor of the way their bodies fit together, the way she clung to him, the way he tasted her skin, the way she cried out his name, the way he held her still, until neither of them could move at all, sweat-slick skin and aching, sated bodies.

Until she promised again, and again,  _I love you, you, only you_ , until he swore never to leave, on his life and hers.


	13. rusalka (fairy tale inspired)

It was music.  Beautiful.  Sharper than the echoes of the Fade in her dreams, richer than a choir following the Chant, a twisting melody she couldn’t quite follow, words she couldn’t remember even as she heard them, and she didn’t care.

Even Sebastian’s voice seemed less important than finding who could sing like that, who seemed to be singing just for her, a whisper down her spine, an ache of desire pulling her closer, up from their camp and through the dark shadows of trees, towards the sweet surrender of that voice, and the soft endless murmur of flowing water.


	14. breathplay (aka more water!kink?)

She laughs as his hands slide up her sides, as water splashes over the edges of the tub, some lingering on the lip, slowly and audibly dripping on the tile floor even as she curves her back and lowers her head and kisses him, warm and soft, the ends of her hair falling into the water, fanning out across the surface, just barely tickling against his shoulders.

Another wave of water tickles his chin, tries to sneak between their lips as she lowers herself over him. His hips lift as she takes him inside her, a groan escapes him as his head tilts back, as she echoes his groan with a sigh, a clench around him, hot and tight.

There is water everywhere,  _she_ is everywhere, hands and heat and the roll of her hips, the nip of her teeth against his jaw, the murmur of her voice, soft and pleased.  Her weight shifts, suddenly, her hands on his shoulders as she leans, and he slides down, down, under the water, back arching and hands clenching and thighs trembling, but he stays, the warm slide of water against his skin, her fingers digging in as she keeps him there, and the pressure builds, lungs and throat and balls and cock, behind his eyes and deep in his chest and low in his gut, until he’s afraid he’ll burst, afraid he won’t, desperate and aching, lifting up beneath her as she rides him, over and over, until awareness starts to fade and there’s nothing left but the endless sharp-edged  _wait_.

At last, almost too late, she cries out loudly enough to echo beneath the water, her body taut even as she falls back,  _back_ , and he’s rising, lifting, arms behind her back and hips bucking up and a desperate burning gasp for air, water spilling and splashing, catching the light, bright and painful and scattered, and she pulls herself close, ragged breath against his neck, his shoulders, his fingers curling, digging into her back, as he follows her into pleasure, and light, all the world lost to relief, aching and beautiful and perfect.


	15. evil characters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or if not so evil, than how she got there ...

Her father had been a fool.   _Serve that which is best …_

All his lesson, all his rules.  All a lie, his freedom bought with blood magic and secrets.

And for what?

Honor? Pride?  Worthless in the midst of a Ferelden winter, or the storms off Kirkwall’s Harbor.  Honor hadn’t kept them warm in Gamlen’s hut, hadn’t fed them when they worked for Athenril.

Hadn’t kept them safe.  

What had all his stories given them?

Death.  That was all, death by sickness and ‘spawn and Taint and madness.  She cared not for some hypocritical voice from the past, not now, not anymore.

Not when she had nothing left to lose, and finally,  _finally,_ something to gain.  

> _I would offer you a Prince._

Kirkwall would bow before her, and she would never have to fear again.

Sebastian would kneel at her feet, and she would take his hand, and she would never have to be alone again.

No one would ever defy her again.

No one would leave.

She would build her new life, her new family, and this time it would be different.  Nothing would ever harm them.

She wouldn’t let it.

It would all be hers.

Finally.  Now and forever.


	16. mirror

She knew it wasn’t real.  Could never be real. But it was so beautiful, small and fragile and perfect.  She couldn’t quite hear their voices, no more than whispers against her skin, but she could feel the heat of his eyes and the sweet touch of his hands, whenever the ghosts in the mirror came together, this Sebastian who no longer wore the robes of a Brother, this copy of herself in finery instead of a smuggler’s dull leathers, and it seemed such an impossible dream, and yet …

It made her breath catch, and she could not seem to look away.


	17. ghosts

It wasn’t a very clever demon.  It had felt his longing for a family, for connection, for peace … and mistakenly thought his actual family had been any good at any of the above, and had brought echoes of their familiar faces before him, whispering sweet nothings and reaching their hands out towards him.

He’d still been laughing when Adelaide found him, the terrible rusty sound of each breath catching in the thick air of the Fade.

His illusory-mother had sneered at the interruption, just before attacking, and at that his stomach twisted, and he stumbled, and it was only because of Adelaide that he didn’t get scratched by long purple claws.  

They didn’t move like his family when they attacked, those lingering impossible ghosts.  He was thankful for that; it made it easier to kill them.

Afterwards, her hands on his cheeks, her eyes searching his, making sure he wasn’t lost in a Fade dream, wasn’t hurt, she asked him what had happened, if he was going to be alright.

"It almost got it right there, for a moment."  He leaned in close enough to brush his lips against the end of her nose, one small soft kiss before his weight settled back on his heels.  "My mother would have hated you."


	18. silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so, the original prompt was gag/silence, but it somehow led me to secrets instead, and Varric, and intentional silence, and well, it definitely still fit the ’I made myself sad’ nature of the challenge? ;_;

Varric lies. Everyone knows this, and yet, he lies so well, so thoroughly, they always think that they are that one exception, the one person who got a hint of the truth, instead of the story.

No one gets this truth.

No one knew why she’d disappeared, not really. The Champion could have withstood the rioting and political fall-out after Meredith’s demise; that was precisely why they’d made her Champion in the first place, that impossible balance of honesty and charm and danger, the desire to do the right thing, and the will to back it up.

She could have stayed. 

But it made a good story, disappearing into the sunset with her friends, never to be seen again, always possibly just around the next curve of road, beyond the last hill, under the shadow of that final mountain.

Varric knew where she was, of course. 

Knew how few of those friends had survived that final battle, had watched her eyes turn too dark to bear as they fell, one by one by one.

Knew how pale her face could become, how small she would seem when her courage finally broke, her charisma gone as she fell to her knees, head bowed, for once not even able to whisper a prayer to ease her sorrow, when she learned Sebastian had been attending the Grand Cleric when Anders …

Well.

Even that, she might have withstood, somehow, might have chosen to stay by Aveline’s side, to stay with the only family she had left.

But she wasn’t. Not quite.

Hawke had been desperate, restless, unable to sleep, or think, those first few days, after, but then, at last, she’d made her choice, and her hands had settled, smooth and graceful, resting against her still-flat stomach as she said good-bye.

There was one person left for her to protect, and she couldn’t do it as Champion, not with the whole world watching.

So the Champion disappeared, and Varric made sure the Seekers hunted a couple, a reckless almost Prince and his consort, off somewhere in distant hills, and never found one young widow and her daughter, living quietly by the sea.


	19. arguing

It doesn’t solve anything.

Angry words haven’t settled, frustration and disappointment still taint the air between them, thick and bitter.  Family and duty and honor, the only things they agree on, the only things they don’t, what is owed, what is necessary, what is  _true._

He is  _wrong_ , she is  _lost_ , back and forth, no answers, more questions, the sharp jab of words too accurate to do anything but wound, and even the heat of his kisses don’t soothe the pain, even the touch of her hands don’t ease the tension, but neither can stop, not after that first brush of skin, the heavy beat of hearts racing only pushing them on, closer, faster, and even when they don’t know why, they don’t know how, they still fit together perfectly, the spread of his palm against her hips, the curve of her spine pushing them together, and apart, a matching rhythm, until she calls out his name, half apology, half plea, and he doesn’t care where she leads him, where they go, he only knows he must answer her,  _yes, love, yes_ , because only together are they  _right._


	20. masochism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also bondage and orgasm denial

He loves it when she ties his hands too tightly, until his fingers throb and his wrists catch against the knots.  Those are the times she teases, until each desperate breath lifts his chest and the slide of his shirt against his skin seems like to drive him mad, to rub him raw.  

She doesn’t kiss him, though she leans in until he can feel the heat of her lips, the warm caress of each breath.  She doesn’t undress him, only pushes just enough clothing aside to free his cock, and she strokes, and licks, and sucks, and pulls away, a soft laugh as his hips buck up to try and follow, as he groans, and begs, over and over, until he is nothing but a terrible ache of desire, until he has forgotten his name, and his voice is worn to the barest whisper, and the knot between his shoulders burns from the pull of his arms and the curve of his back as he twists and moans and catches against his bonds, again and again.

Until at last she reaches some unknown goal, achieves some impossible satisfaction, and straddles him, one strong smooth shift of her hips taking him all the way inside her, and he finds he still has a voice after all.  His shout rasps through a throat gone raw, his hips rise, his eyes close, and he is gone,  _gone_ ,lost in the heat of her as she rides his agony, his pleasure, and even as he tries to gasp she clenches around him, hot and tight, and he cannot breathe, cannot think, his body trying to come, again, still, endless and searing, until finally her body eases, and he shudders one last time, and when at last his heart slows, and she rests softly against him, the nip of her teeth along his jaw reminds him he is not dead.

When she finally kisses him, he has never felt so alive.


	21. werewolf AU

He’d always sidestepped the issue, whenever Aveline scowled, or Varric’s teasing grew sharp and unkind, or Merrill asked, light and lilting but still pointed … _why are you still here?_  

Hawke tried not to ask, grateful that he was, even at the same time she was frustrated at his indolence, at his apparent inability to step up and take responsibility for his life, his family, his duty.

He didn’t lack for courage, or ambition, and he spoke a good line, conviction behind his words for a breath, two, and then he’d shift, somehow, and step back into the shadows, head bowed in something that wasn’t quite regret.

Or not just regret, anways.  And not just fear either, though she caught a hint of that as well.

She didn’t  _understand._

Not until the night she found him ducking down a hidden set of stairs, until she trailed after him deep into the Chantry’s cellars, and saw him angry with her when he saw her, for the first time in all the years she’d known him, the snarl beneath his words growing lower, and louder, and deeper, until she could feel it in her very bones.

He’d stopped mid-sentence, mid-word,  _mid-breath_ _,_  and stepped back, slamming a door shut between them.  She’d heard the click of the lock, the heavy thud of the bar falling into place, and then he spoke, something wild and rough in his voice.

"Stay then," it sounded like a curse, not an invitation, "if you wish to know so badly."  The scrape of metal, a key sliding out from under the door.  "Don’t let me out ‘til morning."

She didn’t, though she spent half the night curled up against the wall, face buried in her hands, trying not to wince at each pained howl, each scrape of claw, muffled by heavy stone and wood.


	22. abandoned locations

Her fingers gripped more tightly, but her face stayed still, apparently calm.  It hurt something in him, to watch her mask settle so easily, so completely, across her face, when he was the only one there to see it, the only one she was hiding from.

She stepped forward at last, her hand still wrapped around his, closer to the empty farmhouse with gaping windows and sagging thatch.  She got as far as the door, her free hand reaching out until her fingers brushed against a broken hinge, and she made a sound at last, sharp and broken, and turned to bury her head against his shoulder, each heavy breath catching against his shirt, not quite sobs, and he wrapped his arms around her, let his head fall forward until he could kiss her, lips soft against her hair, hot from the incongruously bright sunlight falling upon them.

She stayed that way for only a short time, though he would have held her forever, if she’d needed, if she’d asked.  Instead she shifted her weight, her forehead rubbing against him, as if she didn’t want to stay still but couldn’t pull away, and he caught the edge of a melody, a soft hum against his chest.

He slid his fingers beneath her chin, the slightest lift until she raised her face to look at him, and he raised his eyebrows in question.

She shrugged, eyes bright and damp as she blinked.  ”Happy Name Day to me?”

"Adelaide," he sighed, arms pulling her close again.  She never had told him when her Name Day was; even Isabela hadn’t known, and he’d gotten in the habit of ignoring his own as well, preferring to manage the occasional gift or treat whenever they had a quiet moment rather than worrying about the date on the calendar.

This was quite the date, however, and his arms tightened, and he swallowed bitter heat down his throat.

_Bethany, I’m sorry I never met you._

Not a day worth celebrating.

They’d found themselves in Lothering, and they’d skirted the still raw-timbered and fresh-faced rebuilt Chantry in favor of a walk across the fields, until she found her old home, long abandoned, part of the area too Blighted to grow crops.

"I miss them."  Her voice was a bare whisper, hardly audible even in the bright quiet air surrounding them.

"I know," he answered.  There was no ease to that, he knew, even after all these years.  The sorrow lingered, rose up again right when you thought it settled; different each time, sometimes softer or easier, but always still there.  "I’m sorry."  

She huffed out a breath, and stepped back, the slightest hint of a wistful smile softening her expression.  ”No, I’m sorry, for dragging you here, f -“

"Shh."  He shook his head, pressed a finger to the middle of her mouth, just long enough for her voice to still.  "Show me around?"

Her shoulders eased, her smile widening into something sweet.  ”Alright.”


	23. paranormal horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to phrase this particular trigger warning. baby presumably in jeopardy?

Goran had seemed almost relieved to be unseated, had fallen on his own sword with a smile, and a sigh, and had looked almost happy, resting in state before the Mother lit his pyre.

There was something wrong about the Keep, once they settled into their Royal Suite.  

Nothing she could put her finger on, nothing she could see, glimpses out of the corner of her eyes, shadows where there should be light, shifting light when all should be still, open doors that had been closed, rooms cold despite blazing fires and braziers, and sometimes, in the darkest moment of the night, she’d wake up, breathless, the scent of old blood having worked its way into her dreams, gone as soon as she woke.

Whispers worked their way through the servants and guards and nobles, always the same, hints of blood magic, demons, darkness, too much death in the years since the coup that killed Sebastian’s parents.

And for all they tried to dismiss the rumors, tried to comfort their people, they were both too well aware that some of it, at least, was true, the Harimann’s and their demon always a shadow behind their thoughts.

But they’d killed that demon.  They’d freed the Harimann’s, and Goran had chosen his own fate when they’d tried to speak to him … so it should be over.  It had to be over.

But it wasn’t, she knew, she could feel it, something watching, a crawling sensation up her spine, a twist of nausea in her stomach.

Sebastian’s eyes were too dark, his jaw too tight; she knew something was haunting his dreams as well as hers, but there was no one to confront, nothing to fight.

Nothing to do but endure, until whatever it was finally moved out of the shadows and made its move.

* * *

It waited.

Long enough they’d grown … not accepting, never that, but perhaps complacent, believing it a nightmare that was content only to watch.

They learned to mostly sleep the night through, learned to focus on their duties, and their people, and each other.

And then on their heir, Niall Aristide Vael, who Adelaide was  _gauche_  enough to breastfeed herself, his bassinet set beside the window seat in their room.

Until at last he was mostly sleeping through the night, and happily trying to eat his porridge with his fingers every day at breakfast, (some of it even making it into his mouth instead of his hair), and they moved him to the nursery.

Adelaide woke screaming that very first night, a dream of blood and darkness, Sebastian shuddering beside her, and she was crying even as she stumbled out the door, down the too long hall, to find one small empty bed in a neat and quiet room, the nursemaid still lying on her pallet, her skin too pale, breath and heart stilled, her eyes wide and blank and empty, staring at the ceiling.


	24. last kiss

"You’re quieter than usual."  Adelaide took a step just a trifle out of rhythm, her hip bumping against his side.  "Everything alright?"

"Hmm."  Sebastian shrugged.  "Just a little distracted, I suppose."

"Something I need to be worried about?"

"Not in public."  He slanted a glance sideways, permitting a quick if rather obvious look down her body and back up again, startling a hint of a blush and a choked off laugh out of her.

But then her eyebrow lifted, and her mouth curved, and it was his turn to consider blushing, even as she turned sideways and tugged at his hand ‘til he followed her around a corner, into a small storage room of some sort hidden beneath the Keep’s stairs.  She leaned in close, rocking up on her toes ‘til her mouth was dangerously close to his ear, her breath hot against his skin.  ”Is this private enough for you?”

"It shouldn’t be." He was close enough he could feel the faintest shiver in her arms at the sound of his voice, low and rough, could hear the pitch of her breath go higher as his mouth moved to ghost along the line of her jaw until he could whisper back into her ear.  "But it is."

He dropped to his knees, so neither of them would have to curve to avoid his gorget, and she laughed, barely louder than her breath, fingers spread along his cheekbones before she leaned in to kiss him.

He lifted his chin to meet her, opened his mouth to hers, and surrendered to the warmth of her lips and the soft caress of her fingertips against his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh now I'm sad. they didn't even get to say good-bye, not really


	25. English Gothic (aka Sebastian as damsel <3)

He was a Vael of Starkhaven.  He would not be afraid.

But the Amell Estate was a long way from Starkhaven, was a long way from anywhere that his name really mattered, and there were  _such_ stories.  Whispers regarding the unknown background of the recently deceased Malcolm Hawke, rumors of odd noises and uncertain tempers and the current Lady Amell’s odd (and terribly improper) collection of friends and associates.

The fact that it had high thick walls from when it had been a fortress where the local farmers gathered rather than a simple country estate didn’t help any … the stones were grey and streaked with dirt and age, and it positively swallowed up the stars behind it, the line of its roofs looking like heavy brows scowling down at him, perhaps considering if he’d taste well as a midnight snack?

And he was somehow supposed to endear himself to the Mistress of such a house, enough so she’d support his parent’s latest schemes … he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying not to roll his eyes as the moonlight drenched the long drape of white fabric in cool light.

He looked ridiculous, a sacrificial bull prepared for the altar, pretty enough to catch her eye, useless enough to not be missed.

Or hopefully pretty in a way that would catch her eye, anyways, considering how many of the rumors involved her and her pirate lady-friend.  Failure here meant his parents would probably just send him off to the convent instead.  They didn’t need him dragging down their court more than he already did.

He didn’t think he was meant for cloisters.  Or he desperately hoped not, anyways.

Which meant he needed to stop staring up the path and actually go knock on the door.

_I am not afraid._

Maybe if he thought it often enough, he’d believe it.


	26. anonymity during sex

_She didn’t do this sort of thing._

She didn’t pick men up from taverns, let them entice her upstairs with a wink and a smile, didn’t let herself be pushed against the door as soon as it closed, didn’t dig her fingers into their shoulders and push back, mouth and tongue and heat and her thigh sliding up between their legs until they groaned.

Only clearly she did, because here she was, his hands up her shirt and his mouth on her neck and her voice lost to one endless ragged keening breath because everything felt so  _good_ , and she could feel the press of his cock against her hip as he leaned in, could hear the way his accent thickened, even around something as simple as  _Maker, you’re beautiful_  murmured against her skin, and her hips lifted and her weight shifted, and her hands gripped tighter as she tried to pull herself closer to him.

He helped, lifting up under her thighs ‘til she wrapped her legs around him, his arms bracing her weight even as she settled around his hips, and his chest pressed forward harder, and she was gasping, shuddering in his arms, pinned to the door, his cock rubbing between her legs, even through all their clothes, hot and hard, and it was her turn to gasp, to cry for the Maker, when the angle was just right, and her clit throbbed against the pressure, and he moaned again as her hips jerked, and her hands tangled in his hair to pull him close, thighs clenching as she kissed him, open and uneven, gasping as their mouths parted, and came together, as he rolled his hips, again,  _again_ , and she came right there against the door, curving against the heat of him, the weight of him, hard and solid and perfect.


	27. Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reference to torture, death, tranquility

She’d thought, when they came, that they would come for her.

But apparently Champion still meant something, and they wanted a scapegoat.

They blamed  _him_.

He’d known apostates, and let them live.

He’d been there, at the end, and was the only one still by her side.

She’d thought they’d run far enough, fast enough, were living quietly enough to escape notice.  But even their luck failed, at last, helped by deceit and magebane.

They took him.

She tried to stop them, of course, her throat raw as she screamed, muscles burning, a fire beneath her skin as each attempt to reconnect with the Fade failed, but there were too many, and her last memory was the crack of her staff breaking in two.

***

It was unexpected to be aware of waking up again, to blink and slowly see the timbers across the ceiling take shape from the gloom above her.  It would have made sense to kill her.

She did not understand why they had not.

It took three tries to stand up, her body sore and weak, head and ribs and joints, but that eased, a little, as she made herself move, step by slow step.

Nothing so broken she couldn’t survive.

She stripped, found clean clothes, old armor, her second staff, a dagger at her hip.  She packed a bag with food and her old kit and a bedroll.  And spare socks.  

There wasn’t anything else she needed.  

Not anymore.

***

She found them only a few days later, in a barn they’d commandeered outside a small fishing village, presumably waiting for their ship, too impatient or too illegal to want to deal with a proper port.

There were still too many of them, the odds so much worse than before.  She’d never been a very good sneak, but it seemed easy now, to be still, to wait.

She’d wait until the sun fell from the sky for her chance, and never twitch once.

***

It didn’t take nearly that long.  They were arrogant, and bored, and left in search of entertainment, leaving only three of their number behind to guard their captive.

Not that he needed much guarding, confined to one small back room, door locked, easily visible from almost everywhere within the empty barn.

Two of them went outside, playing cards before the door, too close to their torches, night vision ruined.  They’d clearly never worked a day in their lives, not really, and didn’t know about hay lofts and pulleys, and didn’t notice at all when she climbed up around the corner and snuck in above their heads.

The one inside wasn’t expecting anyone from her direction, so she covered his mouth and slid her knife between his ribs, and braced his fall enough that no one would hear a thing.

The body didn’t have the key she needed in any pocket or pouch, so she broke the lock.

Sebastian didn’t wake up when she entered the room, though his sleep clearly wasn’t restful, his face still creased with pain, each breath sharp and too short.  She stepped aside enough to let the light from the doorway spill across him, tried to make sense of what she could see past shadows and dirt and blood stains.

Bruised ribs perhaps, but not cracked, judging from the sound of his breathing.  Ankle chained to the bed, a slight shift of his hips implying his legs were fine.

But his arms were spread a bit too wide, his hands carefully spaced away from his body.

She stepped closer.

They’d broken his fingers.

All of them.

The woman she had been four days ago would have killed them all for this.

But it was too late for that.

When she knelt beside him, she could smell something more than sweat and dirt, sickly sweet and elusive, and ducked her head for a closer look.  Broken skin, breaks untreated.  It was hard to tell, but it looked like the streaks of red up his wrists were wide and hot, disappearing somewhere beneath his sleeves.

Or possibly not disappearing, but spreading, depending on how many days he’d been lying here.  How long they had waited before inflicting their punishment, their petty retribution, and how far along the infection had come, how much time it had had to grow.

She heard the gasp of his breath, could feel the suppressed shudder through his chest,  _definitely bruised ribs,_  the tension in arms he had to think about holding still, and turned her head to look at him, to catch the slightest glint of blue in wide blank eyes.

He jerked, as if at a new shock of pain, and his eyes closed, and she could feel him tremble, could see the swallow down his throat, the slightest shake of his head, back and forth.

"Shh," she let her hand settle, gently, just above his elbow.

His head turned further, all the way to the side, his breath escaping him in one long ragged sigh.

She waited.

"Come here," he whispered, the barest shift of his lashes implying he’d opened his eyes just enough to peer out, even if she couldn’t see them.

She moved sideways, a slow careful shift of her knees.

"Closer." She bent forward. "There."  She stopped.  She heard a low grunt, a shiver of his breath against her skin before he kissed the middle of her forehead, though some of the skin was too damaged, and she could only feel about half of his mouth, a quick warm fleeting touch before he fell back onto his bed, another soft grunt swallowed down his throat at the impact.  "Why are you here?"

"They should not have taken you."

She remembered the next sound he made as one of laughter, the sort that came only when things were not remotely funny.  ”I would have preferred not.  I would also have preferred …”  He blinked, and a tear escaping down the side of his nose caught the light, one quick glint in the dusky light of the room.

"I cannot rescue you."  She glanced down at the chain at the base of the bed, too sturdy for her to break, and he could no longer pick it.  Not with the damage to his hands.  "There is no where safe, where we could try and treat you, even if you could manage the trip."   _And I cannot heal you._

She could hear him swallow, could see another smothered wince.  ”Are you here to grant me mercy then?”

"I believe that is what you would want.  What I would have wanted, before … " She tilted her head, unable to find the words she needed, words that weren’t full of things she no longer quite understood.

"Back when you still wanted things."

"Yes."  She sighed.  Of course he would know.  He always knew.  She remembered that.

"May I suggest," his voice broke, and his eyes closed, and she saw another tear sliding down his cheek.

She had to wait longer, this time, for him to pull himself together enough to try again.

"You should do the same for yourself, before they find you."

She blinked, considered the violence of their initial attack, the memory of vengeance, and escalation, of frustrated rage turned outward, now that she was even more vulnerable than before.  Remembered a whisper of her own voice in the dark, telling him she would not want to live like  _that_ , if ever they took her.  ”That is a sensible consideration.  I will.”

His chin ducked down almost to his chest, his next few breaths too violent to be anything but sobs.  ” _Oh_ , Adelaide.”

She ducked her own head, lips pressed firmly together.  Her name sounded different, somehow, than all the other hundreds of memories of him saying it that she still possessed.  And, it wasn’t regret, she couldn’t regret, but it seemed wrong, terribly wrong, that she could no longer interpret what it meant, what  _he_ meant, the way she always had before.

"Goodbye, Sebastian."  

He sighed, and nodded, and she covered his mouth, just in case someone had come back while they were talking, and he closed his eyes, and she stabbed him in the heart, and waited until his body stopped moving.  And then a little longer.  She lifted her hand, and pulled the dagger back out, nodding to herself when there was only the slightest trickle of blood following the blade.

He was dead.

It would not hurt his hands anymore, so she climbed up beside him, and settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder.  She could not fall and make a sound, now, could not alert someone to her presence before she died, give them a chance for more violence.

Besides, they had wanted to die together, once.

She found she was still capable of hope, of hoping this was close enough to grant him some peace.

Her dagger was covered in his blood, but it did not need to be cleaned, not for this one final strike.  It slid easily enough into her chest, and she muffled one last gasp of pain against his body before she died.


	28. doomed relationships

"May I walk you home?" Sebastian’s words were innocent enough, merely polite, but there was the hint of anticipation in the lift of an eyebrow, a tremble of hope in the shift of his shoulders.   _I miss you_ , unspoken but clear.  It had been so long since they’d had any time together, since they’d spoken beyond what was necessary when they were working together.

"I’ll be fine, Sebastian."  The slightest smile, pretending to manners herself, if not quite as successfully.   _That is a terrible idea, don’t you think?_   She couldn’t quite stop her fingers from curling together, the press of her fingertips against the leather covering her palms, the flare of her nostrils as she let out too heavy a breath.   _Maker’s Breath_ , she wanted to say yes.   _I miss you too._

"Of course," he bowed his head, still so proper, a gracious farewell, but she had seen the tightening of his brow, the hint of pain before he hid it behind his small smile.  "Some other time, Hawke."

She watched him go, could not stop herself from counting his footsteps even after he turned the corner, from holding her breath until she could not hear him at all.  Even letting out a heavy sigh, releasing all that tension, did not ease the ache in her chest.

No matter how many times she reminded herself,  _apostate, cannot, noble, Brother, Prince,_  nothing stopped that ache in her chest.

And she knew, some day, she would succumb to that sweet smile, and she would fall, and he would catch her, for a little while, and maybe that would be worth it.

She was afraid it wouldn’t be.  She knew it couldn’t be, not really, not for long, and so she waited, drawing out this moment,  _before,_  when the endless ache of anticipation still held a whisper of hope.

So much better than the despair that follows, once everything is lost.


	29. Lovecraftian Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one may very well be my favorite, in terms of taking the idea of the challenge and managing to run with it :D Someday I should _clearly_ write a horror fic.

He can hear it, sometimes, when he’s serving vigil at night, tending the brazier and the candles.  Whispers in the walls.  Footsteps across the ceiling, or around a corner, or echoing out from inside an empty room.  No one else seems to hear them, but he can’t escape them, almost every night, waiting on the edges of his dreams.

There are stories, of course, of the rituals the Tevinter Magisters used to conduct, improbable stories, too horrible to be believed, and yet … every once in awhile someone finds a previously barricaded room, or alley, or basement, with angles that are all wrong, and walls that are too thick, and channels cut into the stone floor.  The night after such a discovery, the whispers are always worse, giggling and snickering in the darkness every time he blinks.

Sometimes he blinks too long, and when he opens his eyes he’s somewhere else, some _when_  else, minutes or hours later, and he can’t remember what happened in that moment that wasn’t a moment, what he did or how he got there.

Once he opens his eyes and he’s locked in his room, scrubbing his hands in his basin, blood caught under his nails and between the lines of his knuckles, chest heaving with swallowed sobs.

He avoids everyone he’s ever known the next few days, afraid he’ll hear of someone who has disappeared, someone who has died, and he’ll know that it isn’t just a nightmare, that it wasn’t just some sort of accident, that he truly has blood on his soul, and it will never wash free as easily as it did from his skin.

It happens again, and this time he can feel himself smiling as the water in the basin turns red, can feel a laugh caught in his chest, and his breath is short with anticipation instead of despair, wondering if maybe, maybe, next time he’ll be lucky enough to remember.


	30. messengers (angels/mythological equivalent)

It is a small book, the cover bare, no title or signature on the first page to claim what it is, or who wrote it.  Old, so old, the parchment dim and fragile.  A diary, of sorts, frequently broken up by stanzas that seem almost familiar, almost the Chant he knows, but not quite, never quite the same, and it is only after he has studied it for months, a slow careful perusal, just a few pages at a time during his free hours in the library after he has finished his assigned copying, his hands covered in the thinnest of leather gloves to protect the pages from the oil on his fingers, that he realizes that it was written by Hessarian.

Or someone who claims to be Hessarian, at least.

It makes it hard to breathe, to think that might be true.  He goes back to the stanzas he’d read before, and mouths the words, and remembers references to a lost verse in some of the older books he’d copied, one from out of Tevinter, and his fingers tremble, to imagine he might have found it.

He cannot tell the Grand Cleric.  She would take the book away, send it to more recognized scholars, hide it somewhere in the White Spire’s archives, never to be seen again.  For all he loves the place he has found, the Chantry is run by simple people, and sometimes they are afraid.  Sometimes they cling too tightly to their places, to their power, sometimes they defend the stories that are familiar, are comfortable, rather than the ones that might be true.

This one is not comfortable, if it is true.

It speaks of Spirits, and Demons, (and clearly believes them one and the same, the second only fallen from their true callings).  But it calls them the Second Children, not the First.  It does so simply, easily, as if such a distinction was common, accepted, too basic a truth to be concerned with explanations.

As if it is not an overturning of every piece of Chantry doctrine he has memorized in the past ten years.

As if the promises of Messengers who are still allowed to travel between the Blackened City, and the Fade, and beyond the Veil to their solid world as well, are not the very thing to shake the Chantry to its foundations.

_What if Andraste is not the only one who still knows how to reach the Maker’s Side?_

He wants to slip the book into his pocket, take it with him so he may study it more, for longer than these few stolen afternoons.

He wants to take it to Adelaide, to ask her what she thinks.  He knows she has read dissonant verses before; she is careful about mentioning it, always so oblique, but she recognized the Book of Shartan when they found it and gave it to Fenris, and clearly feels her magic is a personal connection to her Faith, strongly enough he believes she must once have seen a copy of  _The Search for the True Prophet_ ,or one of several similar volumes the Chantry hides deep in its archives whenever it finds them.

But if he is discovered, that might be the final break in the Grand Cleric’s patience, the one thing that causes her to send him away, right when she most needs his help, right when she most needs protection.

It will wait, surely, until the current troubles have settled, until Kirkwall finally claims a Viscount and the Divine no longer has to worry so much about one crumbling City on the shores of the Waking Sea, and turns her attention back to her duties in Orlais.

He slides the book carefully into the back compartment of his desk, behind the bottles of ink and spare quills.  It will wait.  It has survived this long, after all.  A few more moons should be of no consequence.


	31. The End of the World

After the troubles in Kirkwall, so much fire and death, and the thinning of the Veil worsening to the point that Adelaide woke from nightmares most nights despite a lifetime of safely warded sleep, they never expected the end of the world to start with rain.

It was warm, and soft, and she’d laughed as he kissed her, and they’d stayed out in the field beneath the rain, dancing to a haphazard melody they hummed together until water dripped from the end of her braid and down the back of his neck and their boots squelched and slipped in the mud.

They’d both laughed as they stumbled home, and stripped themselves of heavy wet clothes, and warmed up before the fire, chasing the last few drops of water with lips and tongues and fingers, and then they’d forgotten the rain entirely in favor of each other, the heat between them more compelling than the fire beside them, until her back arched and she cried out her pleasure, louder than the drops still falling against the roof and walls.

It was still raining the next day, and they made tea and sat beside the fire and sang songs and she read when he made bread, and she set the stew to simmer while he went through his feathers, breaking them for fletching the next day, and they made love in their bed this time, and fell asleep to the sound of raindrops against the shutters.

It was still raining the next day.

And the next.

It never stopped raining.  

Never a proper storm, never a rise in the wind or a crash of thunder, just the same soft warm fall of water, on and on and on, until the air was as thick and wavering as the Fade itself.

He didn’t think that was a coincidence.

Refugees started passing through, trying to find higher ground.

They helped them when they could, passing along information, showing them the safest paths, but they never followed.  They stayed.

There’d been too much running, for too many years, and she was lucky to get an hour or two of sleep at a time, anymore; there was no respite from the growing voices of the Fade, no cure for what ailed her.  

No cure for what ailed the world.

They stood in their doorway, watching the rain, watching the travelers, his shoulder braced against the frame, his arms wrapped around her, her head resting against him.  For now they were quiet, and their land was still peaceful, no troubles beyond the rain itself.

They’d had plenty of time to make a proper potion, something that would send them to sleep first, as painless as it was possible to make their own deaths.  But they were neither of them in too much of a hurry.  Their days were safe enough, their nights still warm, skin to skin and long soft kisses.  The end could wait ‘til their last food stores spoiled, or the rising water found them.

As endings went, he had always thought he’d have worse, had feared the blood and violence that had haunted his life, had never expected such a long, soft goodbye.

And how could he be any less than grateful, that at least they were still together.


End file.
